


Wounded

by sevendeadlyfun



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, between the lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevendeadlyfun/pseuds/sevendeadlyfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The cost of death is measured by the anguish of those the dead love best...</em>. After Buffy's death, Spike talks and Angel listens. Set between the lines of BtVS s5/6 and AtS s2/3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounded

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

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[gen](http://sevendeadlyfun.livejournal.com/tag/gen), [spike-centric](http://sevendeadlyfun.livejournal.com/tag/spike-centric)  
  
  
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Title: Wounded

Characters: Spike, Angel

Rating: PG-13

Summary: _The cost of death is measured by the anguish of those the dead love best..._. After Buffy's death, Spike talks and Angel listens. Set between the lines of BtVS s5/6 and AtS s2/3.

A/N: Many, many thanks to my dearest beta (who I tragically and mistakenly forgot to thank over at [Homecoming](http://sevendeadlyfun.livejournal.com/120169.html) and that is BAD AND I SUCK. I'M SORRY!) [](http://anxiety-junkie.livejournal.com/profile)[**anxiety_junkie**](http://anxiety-junkie.livejournal.com/). She is awesomer than awesome and devotes her precious weekend time to reading my angst and translating it to real words. I owe her (and that means happier fic, soon. Soon-ish. Sometime soon. Well,maybe neutrally hopeful fic. Let's not rush me) for all her hard work.

He feels dead. In over a hundred years, he's never once stopped to think about his own death. That first night, exhilarated by the climb from his coffin and body clamoring for blood, he'd felt so alive. The swift rush of his pounding heart had been replaced by another urgent drumbeat. Tonight, he finally feels it-the emptiness, the stillness, of his body.

When he reaches the crypt, he feels the change even before he smells it. It's not surprising. Willow had made it a point to race to L.A. even before they'd figured all the arrangements. But to find him here…Spike snorts. No, that's not bloody surprising, either. It's too typically Angelus, out to find a scapegoat for a plan gone wrong.

Spike peels off the leather duster, moving gingerly. He's still a mass of healing bones and torn muscle. His shirt follows, and he winces as much for the damage to the cloth as he does for the pain of the movement. The black cotton is caked with blood and torn to rags.

The whiskey bottle's in easy reach and it takes a few swallows before the pain starts to mellow. It doesn't disappear, but the edges smooth out a bit and that's better than nothing. He can hear Angel in the shadows, the slight shifts in his stance as the poof tries to figure out how to approach him. This shit could take all night and Spike can't think of anything he's less in the mood for. The memories crowd in and he shakes his head. Yeah, he can think of a right few things he's less in the mood for. Doesn't make this particular situation any better, though.

"I went to her room," Spike begins, talking quietly to the dark crypt. "I just walked in. No point in respecting the privacy of a dead woman and whatnot. It was all still there. Saw a pair of her trousers in the corner, all scrunched down."

He walks forward, leaning his head against the cool stone. He doesn't know what to say or even why the hell he's saying it. But he can't keep quiet.

"I keep seeing her," he continues. "Out of the corner of my eye. It's funny, yeah? Of all the Slayers to haunt me. Didn't even kill this one."

His lips twitch and he fights to keep his face blank. He takes a long pull from the bottle and turns, bracing his back against the wall. This is hard enough without support.

"I did, though," he confesses. "I did. We did. Not fast enough, not strong enough. Just…not enough."

He lifts the bottle, tipping it slightly towards his unseen guest. It's a bitter toast and yet, Spike thinks it might be the friendliest gesture he's made in Angel's direction in a long while. Although, he did shell out for a top torturer; not exactly friendly, but it does show his high regard. He laughs, short and sharp, and the sound is swallowed by the dark closing in around him.

"It's such a deception," Spike says abruptly. "Her room. It's like a lie, innit? I know she's not coming back, but her room…Everything's where she left it, yeah? Like she's gonna come back and pick it up again. Put it to some use."

Those words don't disappear into the dark. Those words linger because Spike knows he and Angel don't give a tinker's damn about her room. So her bloody hairbrush never gets any use. So what? But the two of them, her friends, the whole world- she's never coming back for any of them either and that gives those words heft. They're all right where she left them. Waiting for her to come back and pick them up again. Put them to some use.

He takes another long drink, sliding slowly down the wall. He isn't drunk. He thinks idly that it might be nice to get drunk. A long, ugly bender would take his mind off things. Take his mind, full stop.  
"Where you going?" Spike asks softly. "You always do a runner when things get ugly. So where to this time?"  
"Sri Lanka."

The answer shocks him, more because it's an honest answer than because Angel actually answered. He thought Angel might answer, throw out some bluster about checking in on him, maybe show him a stake and promise to hurt him if he doesn't behave. He didn't really think Angel would tell him the truth. He isn't sure what to do with a truthful answer.

"Off to heal your wounded soul?" He likes that answer. Sounds dismissive. "No healing this, Angel. Death's the big one, yeah?"

He stands, tossing aside the now empty bottle. It smashes against the wall, a satisfying crunch that doesn't actually satisfy him. He shakes his head, staring narrowly out at Angel.

"They want to replace her. They tell you that? Those dear kiddies have a robot Slayer." Spike can feel the carefully hidden anger and fear bubbling inside him. He clenches his fists. "It's like they haven't figured it out yet. All the destruction raining down on this place and they still haven't learned the real betrayal of death."

He stops, his eyes closing against the waves of awful truth that batter him. It strikes him like a fist and he knows that there is no escape from the grave, not really. Not for her, not for any of them. She is gone. He is gone.

"They don't understand," he says finally. "Now go to bloody Sri Lanka."

Spike turns away, leaving Angel to his shadows and his sorrows. He can't be bothered to say what Angel already knows, what Angelus drilled into him all those decades ago---that the real betrayal of death is the fact that the dead don't suffer. The cost of death is measured by the anguish of those the dead love best. He moves slowly into the darkness of his crypt. He has his own wounds to bind, his own hurts to heal. 

_   
**Wounded (Spike, PG-13, 1/1)**   
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End file.
